A Chat Over Chips
by cactusnell
Summary: Molly loves chips almost as much as she loves Sherlock, so how can she turn down a late night with both? Sherlolly.


The two friends sat at the large table at the back of the the Old Star, a pub near Scotland Yard. The table was strewn with the detritus of a much larger party, one which had broken up rather early as the celebrants made their home to loved ones. Celebrations at the end of big cases tended to be brief, if they happened at all. A few shared drinks, some bar snacks, and then off again to the more comfortable, non-professional part of their lives. Sherlock Holmes surveyed the messy table in front of him, and turned to look at the small woman sitting next to him. "Well, Dr. Hooper, another satisfactory conclusion to a difficult case. Care for some chips?"

But the woman did not reply immediately, simply sat sipping the last of her red wine and looking rather contemplative. Finally she said, quietly, "Sherlock, have you ever noticed how we're always the last one left at these things? It's rather sad, you know."

"Why sad, Molly. It's simply logical, that's all. Everyone else has someplace to go, home to family. John rushes off to Mary and Claire, Lestrade, depending on the phase of the moon, it seems, goes home to his errant almost ex-wife, or his current paramour, Donovan goes off to whomever will have her. They go back to their private lives. What's sad about that?"

"The sad part is that we don't have anyone to go home to, Sherlock."

"What's so sad about that, Molly. We have each other. How about those chips? We could hop into a cab and be at the Golden HInd in no time at all. Best chips in London!"

Molly was sorely tempted by two of the things she loved most in the world, Sherlock Holmes and the best chips in London. "But won't they be closing soon, Sherlock? It's after nine now."

"They'll let me in, Molly. The owner owes me a favor."

"Solved another murder?"

"No, more shelves."

"Sherlock, I've seen you trying to put together a bookcase from Ikea, so, one day, you're going to have to come clean about all these 'shelves' you claim to have helped people build."

"I have never claimed these shelves have withstood the test of time, Molly. But they were still intact when I left the premises. But, enough about my skills at carpentry. Chips?"

And Molly Hooper decided that if she couldn't have Sherlock Holmes, she would settle at least for some chips, and his company for a while longer. So she let him guide her toward the exit, and the almost miraculously waiting black cab.

It was only a short ride to the Golden Hind, on Marylebone Lane, just a short distance from Baker Street. The place was famous for its fish and chips, although they did offer a complete menu. As soon as they entered, an older gentleman, whom Molly assumed was the owner, greeted them effusively, making a big fuss over the detective finally bringing a woman to the place.

"Sherlock, what a lovely lady! Where have you been hiding her?" 

"The morgue at St. Bart's," the detective answered in a matter-of-fact tone.

"That's not a nice thing to say, even in jest, Sherlock! I can tell from her smile she's too warm to be kept in such as cold place!" The man took Molly's hand, and held it gently. "Such warm eyes, she would melt the corpsicles!" He then turned to the detective. "So nice that you finally bring your girlfriend to my establishment. Come on, I'll take you to your regular table."

Sherlock was rolling his eyes at the man, but smiling, as Molly started to speak. "I'm sorry we've come so late. We'll try not to take so long, I know you're getting ready to close," Molly said apologetically. "And I'm not his girlfriend, just a friend."

"How unfortunate for him!", the older man said as he sat them at a table, and signalled for a waitress. When he had gone, and their order for fish and chips had been placed, Sherlock said to his companion, almost with an accusing tone, "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what, Sherlock?"

"Emphasize to everyone that you are not, in fact, my 'girlfriend'?" He could barely keep his lips from curling as he spoke the innocuous, but to him somehow offensive, term.

"I thought I'd do it before you did, you git. You always manage to make it the assumption sound preposterous, anyway. It's almost insulting!"

"I realize that. That's why I have given up doing it. But you never seem to miss a chance! 'Hello, my name is Molly Hooper, and I am not Sherlock Holmes' girlfriend!' Is it really that demeaning to be thought of as my girlfriend, Molly?"

Molly was taken aback by the direction the conversation had taken. "Of course not, Sherlock. But, it's simply not true. We are not a couple, so why should we allow people to think otherwise?"

"Molly, has it ever occurred to you that for all intents and purposes, we might as well be a couple?"

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Look at the facts, Dr. Hooper. We're always together. At work. At social functions. Tonight was not unusual. We are always the last ones left at the table. Together. No one thinks it unusual. We are together at Bart's. We spend evenings together watching crap telly, or videos, or running experiments. We complement each other. You are sociable, and kind, and warm, and I am none of the above. Together, we make an average human being. You are lovable, like a teddy bear. I am unbearable, more like a grizzly. Your association with me gives you an interesting, almost dangerous edge, while my affiliation with you makes me almost acceptable in polite society."

"Don't kid yourself, Mr. Holmes, it would take a lot more than my influence to make your behavior acceptable in polite society!" But Molly spoke these words with an affectionate smile. And, to her surprise, the detective smiled back. A genuine smile, so she felt free to continue. "Sherlock, are you getting a bit sentimental? Next you'll be telling me I'm your best friend!"

"Don't be silly, Molly. The term 'best' implies a single, superlative entity. There can only be one 'best'. John is my best friend. I never really thought I'd have one, but it appears that I do. You are not my 'best' friend." But when he saw a subtle look of hurt, or disappointment, cross her face, he felt compelled to add, "You are something entirely different, Molly. Something, uh, more, perhaps…" He was interrupted as the waitress placed plates heaped with delicious smelling fish and chips before them on the table.

Molly looked at him, her eyes begging him to continue, but he seemed to be more interested in the food in front him, picking up pieces of the golden fried cod, and the crispy chips, and methodically putting them to his lips. She watched him with rapt attention, wishing she were a piece of fish, but the detective didn't seem to notice. When he finally looked up, he asked, "Not hungry anymore, Molly? We can have it packed up to take home."

"No, I'm starving!" Molly said, finally giving in to the delicious aroma. Sherlock had often brought just such a meal along with him on the many evenings when he showed up at her flat, usually without an invitation, but always welcome. "I'm glad we finally came here. I've been curious about where you get the chips. Best I've ever had! We're not too far from your flat, are we?"

"Just over a half mile. About a ten minute walk. It's a pleasant night, we can walk home after we eat," Sherlock answered, and Molly felt a shudder of warmth spread through her. Even though she knew he had misspoke, she was heartened by his referring to Baker Street as 'home' to both of them, and was happy to hear that her evening with Sherlock was not to end so soon.

"Are we going back to your flat, Sherlock? It's getting rather late, after all."

"Don't worry, Molly. I won't keep you up past your bedtime!" he replied rather cryptically. "But there's something I've been meaning to discuss with you for quite some time, and now seems as good a time as ever."

"What is this about, Sherlock?" Molly asked with some trepidation. Whenever the detective had something to say in the past, it was usually something she hadn't wanted to hear. Your breasts are too small, your conversational skills are lacking, and you boyfriend is gay - stuff like that. Molly didn't know if she was ready for something like that, but the next words out of his mouth almost made her wish he had started on a further critique of her figure, her wardrobe, her personality, anything but what seemed to be his chosen topic.

"Molly, did you love meat dagger very deeply?"

"His name was, is, Tom, Sherlock. And I don't suppose I did. Not nearly enough to marry him, in any case. I don't know what I was thinking, although I suspect everybody else did!"

"Everybody was thinking that he looked very much like a poor copy of me, Molly. Physically, at least. Certainly not mentally…"

"Of course not! He isn't a sociopath!"

"Neither am I, as you are certainly well aware by this time. Merely a socially inadequate egotist. But you knew I was alive, and I was coming back, so why would you settle for Tom?"

"Sherlock, I also know Prince Harry lives in London, and is currently single, but I'm not pinning my hopes on him, either!"

"Hmmpf! Do you prefer gingers, then? I thought you liked dark curls?"

"Sherlock, this conversation is beginning to make me uncomfortable. What is you have to say?"

"Are you completely over your broken engagement, Molly?"

"Yeah, well that took all of about twenty-four hours before sadness gave way to relief! And it's been months!"

"How long did it take you to get over me, Molly? When I was gone for those two years?"

The woman held her breath, trying to decide between the truth and a glib lie. She decided to go with the truth. Didn't the old saying go, "The truth will set you free?" "I don't really know, Sherlock. I'll let you know when it happens."

The man across the table nodded his head slightly, and lowered his eyes to the table, lost in thought. "Sherlock, now is not the time to enter your goddamned mind palace! We can't stay here all night! The place is closing!" Sherlock took a deep breath, and returned to the moment. "That may make things a bit easier, actually, Molly. As I pointed out before, we are, to all intents and purposes, already a couple. Almost. There seems to be only one thing missing in our relationship. Am I making myself clear?"

"Not really, Sherlock," Molly said, wanting to believe that what she was thinking was the correct interpretation of the detective's remarks.

"Sex, Molly. Is that clear enough? The only thing missing is sex!"

"I didn't think you were interested in that sort of thing, Sherlock," Molly could barely get the words out, and could only hope the could be heard over the sound of her rapidly beating heart.

"Ah, you've been listening to too much hearsay and gossip. One should never mistake inaction for disinterest. And, contrary to Mrs. Hudson's often voiced opinion, neither John, nor I, are gay. At the other end of the spectrum, that whole news article about Janine and I, and seven times a night, was a complete fairytale! Believe me when I tell you, Molly, that the whole Janine affair was a matter of inaction brought on by complete disinterest. On my part, at least. It was for a case, and nothing more. You and I should never have that experience, as I would intend to be very active on account of a serious amount of interest! Do I make myself clear now?"

"Sherlock, must you always speak in circles? Just say what you want! I don't want there to be any room for misinterpretation."

"I want to up the status of our relationship, Molly. I want us to have sex, often, on a regular, monogamous basis, for as long as you can put up with me."

"Sherlock, knowing you as long as I have, I have developed a rather high threshold for heartbreak, so I'm going to assume that I can put up with you for a very long time. Is that okay with you?"

"I promise not to test your limits, Molly. Or, at least I'll try. Can we go home now?"

"Home to Baker Street?"

"Ah, you did catch my little slip there, didn't you? I was a bit premature, perhaps, but I hope you'll consider it home from now on." Sherlock then moved closer to the smaller woman and reached his hand up to cup the back of her head and pull her lips in close for a kiss. The first of many not to land on her cheek, or her forehead. It was gentle yet passionate, full of promise of things to come. When he finally pulled away from her, he paused to look her in the eye. "Don't worry, Molly. We'll be fine. I never fail at something I put my mind to, and I always seem to get what I want, and you're what I want more than anything." And with that being said, he gently pulled her to her feet, and, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, guided her toward the exit. When the proprietor approached them to make his farewells, Sherlock greeted him with a self-satisfied smile. "Say 'good-night' to my 'girlfriend', Jimmy. I'm sure we'll be back soon." And with that, the happy couple, now truly a couple, or at least in anticipation of truly becoming a couple, made their way out to the street for the longest ten-minute walk of their lives. Back to 221B Baker Street. Home.


End file.
